


Needful Things

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Prostitution, Sexual Content, Suit Porn, fallen!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is a prisoner of the Winchesters and offers his help to find Castiel who is lost after the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needful Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zoi_no_miko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/gifts), [3988Akasha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/gifts).



> This takes place after the end of Season 8. There are tiny spoilers for the sneak peak of Season 9 but beyond that, everything else is just wish fulfillment. This is Crowley's POV.

Bloody Winchesters. It was so dark and _lonely_ in the blasted dungeon. The thing about the Devil you know was that it was the Devil you bloody well _knew_ , wasn’t it? He should’ve killed them years ago, instead of playing with his food like some demented cat. It wasn’t as if he had underestimated them. He’d studied them, after all, and he was winning, _oh how_ he was winning. Until he wasn’t. And now what? Stuck in a dungeon, like some useless _person_ , and with the angels falling, and Abaddon out there somewhere, just rearing up to come ride his ass (and not in a fun way), the word “unseemly” came to mind. Among other choice words. Bloody idiot.

If nothing else, it gave him time for self-reflection, if by “self-reflection” he meant “plotting revenge,” which, of course, he did. He was, after all, the King of Hell. Worked his way up through the ranks, didn’t he? Managed to survive _Lucifer_ , for Christ’s sakes. And now, bound, shackled and damn near _cured_ by a couple of… Ugh! Smug, tall BASTARDS. They’ve been hit on the head so many times, they should both be eating through a straw right about now, drooling out of the corners of their shapely little mouths, instead of _ruining his reign_. 

The door creaked and Crowley blinked owlishly at the sliver of light permeating into the dungeon.

“Come to gloat some more?” Crowley’s voice came out a lot hoarser than he would’ve liked. He supposed the meat suit needed some sort of lubrication. Preferably in the form of several tumblers of scotch.

“Whenever you’re ready to talk,” a gruff voice echoed off the walls. Ah, Squirrel. Coming to, no doubt, try to petrify him with his studied manliness. 

“Save your breath, Winchester,” Crowley bit out. Somewhere inside all that muscle and testosterone, he was still just a little boy, crying for his mommy.

“No skin off my back. I can just leave you here for a few more weeks.”

“Weeks?” His voice betrayed his dismay. He’d been here for weeks? How many? And, more importantly, what did he miss? He hated feeling out of the loop.

“Something you wanna ask me, Crowley?”

He still couldn’t see the little rodent’s face, but he would have to make due.

“Did you find your angel?” Crowley inquired, almost sweetly, or at least trying to make his voice sound as genial as possible. 

“That’s none of your goddamn business.” 

“No, of course not. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. What with hundreds, possibly thousands of pissed off Heavenly Host, all looking for little old Cas, trying to tear him a new one, and by that I do mean kill him…”

“You shut your trap, Crowley. I’m not here to talk about angels. There’s a list in your head, and you’re gonna give it to me, or I’m walking out that door again and there’s no telling when I’m coming back.” Squirrel’s voice betrayed a world of anger. Crowley smiled inwardly.

“I can still teleport,” he offered, meekly.

“What?”

“I could find him for you. You know, before someone else does.” The Winchester was silent. Crowley had struck the right cord. “Could bring him back here, you know. Sign of good will and all that.”

“Sign of good will? You know how you can give me a sign of good will?”

“He’s all alone out there, Dean. Wingless. Human, possibly even. Defenseless. And likely drowning in his own guilt. You know how Cas gets.” Crowley bit his lower lip to prevent a smirk from formulating. He had, after all, studied the Winchesters, and studied them _thoroughly_.

“He may already be dead,” Dean replied, his voice hollow in the darkness. It was enough for Crowley to sense that he was on the right track.

“But if he’s not - I will find him. Cas and I, we… Have a history.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of your _history_ ,” Dean hissed.

“What’s going on here?” Moose had magnificently Moosed into the room, towering perversely over his already sufficiently tall brother. The Winchesters were conferring. He couldn’t quite make out the mumbling, but he presumed Squirrel was filling his sibling in on their little chat. “I saw it, Dean,” he heard Moose’s voice more distinctly, no doubt due to the fact that his gigantic chest carried more resonance. “There’s humanity deep down inside him. What have you got to lose?”

They faced him together. He still couldn’t make out their faces, since both their broad lumberjack backs had been to the light, but a glimmer of hope ran through Crowley nevertheless. 

“How do I know you won’t just find Cas and kill him yourself?”

“What would I do with a dead fallen angel?”

“You’ve already tried to kill him once!” Sam reminded him. The long legs also had a long memory, it would appear. Granted, that little fiasco wasn’t as far in his past as he would’ve liked it to be. What kind of an imbecile shoots someone in the stomach, disembowels them, and then leaves them in the room with an utterly useless nincompoop! _Oh, Castiel, how I underestimated you._

“Moose… Sam..,” Crowley had to tread carefully. “As much as I am loathe to admit it, but what I said to you in that church… You know. About redemption? Well, I’ve wronged many people. And let’s just say all of them are dead, shall we? Well, most of them, anyways. I won’t get a chance to do something useful for them in any foreseeable future. But if Hot Wings is alive - I’ll find him for you.”

“We let him go, he’s never coming back,” Dean growled. Crowley couldn’t fault that logic, although he was pleased to see by the hunter’s uncomfortable swaying that indecision was tearing the man apart.

“You can summon me right back into this Devil’s trap,” Crowley offered, rather more helpfully than he anticipated. He really wanted out of that damn chair. And he really _desperately_ wanted out of that dungeon. “Besides, you’ve drained me of most of my mojo, I won’t be that much safer out there alone than Cas.”

“What exactly are you saying?” the distrustful Moose leaned over him, bringing his luxurious head of hair within reach, if only Crowley wasn’t chained up.

“I’m _saying_ ,” he began rather sassily, having to check his tone, “I’m saying that Abaddon is out there, gunning for my throne. And that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

“It would be easier for you just to give up the names and location of the demons in your horde,” Sam pointed out. Clever Moose.

“But that wouldn’t get me paroled, now would it, boys?”

“Five names. Then you can have a day. That’s it, you hear me?” Dean was standing behind him, raising the hackles on his neck with his best Dark Knight impersonation.

 _Oh, what the Hell_ , Crowley figured. And started to recite the names.

***

The wretchedness of it. Humanity. The stench, the blood, the pain, the _hunger_. Not only was it inconvenient, it was distracting, this sudden onslaught of everyone’s _want_. He didn’t know whether it was Sam’s poisonously righteous blood that did it to him, or weeks in solitary, but whatever it was - it was _working_. Working, that is, to make him utterly miserable.

Crowley brushed past yet another stinking specimen of the human race, all rags and sallow skin, hand shaking in a silent supplication. How did they stand to be like this? He probably would have ended it all by now if he had been this needy, this helpless, this _pathetic_. And, of course, this - this downtrodden, decrepit piece of the world would be where his old partner in crime would end up. Typical. Probably huddled in piss-reeking rags somewhere, under this very bridge, this bridge to literally _nowhere_ , it was poetic, really. And Crowley had always prided himself on having a great sense of poetry.

He kicked at a pile of filth, making its inhabitant stir in aggravated surprise and make an undignified squawk. No. Wrong hobo. Dammit, Cas, even fallen he was a pain in Crowley’s ass. “As you were,” he mumbled, stepping over the dirt-encrusted rags and the man underneath them.

He moved further through the mire of misery.

“If you were a fallen angel, where would you be?” he muttered at someone with vacant eyes and missing teeth. “No. Not a lot of help, are you?”

“Hey, darlin’, you looking for a date?” Perfect. A whore. Just his luck. Crowley scowled at the street walker. She had more runs in her pantyhose than there was actual hose left. Make up was caked over her face, obscuring a shiner, poorly.

“I am,” he paused. “But you’re not my type, dearie. I’m more into the tall, dark and handsome, you see?”

The whore gave an ugly laugh at that.

“Know where I can find such a guy?” he continued, undeterred. Whores were clever. Had to be, to survive. Whoring wasn’t any safer than running Hell, he figured. “Blue eyes? Bed head? Goes by the name of Cas, maybe?”

“That’s awful specific,” the lady of the night winked at him. “Sure I couldn’t just help you out myself?”

He flashed her a grin and then flashed her a wad of cash. He wasn’t King of Hell for nothing. Humans were so simple in their needs.

“Would this help jog your memory, perhaps?”

She eyed the money with raw desire in her eyes and swallowed.

“Whatcha want him for?”

“Awww, that’s sweet. Are you protecting him?”

“Let’s say I even know who you mean… Which I ain’t sayin’ I do. But if I did…”

“Darling, this is three hundred dollars. How many cocks do you have to suck to make this kind of haul? I’m offering it to you for one second of your time.”

“He must be a hell of a lay,” she snickered.

“I’m counting on it,” Crowley bared his teeth and then adjusted his expression again. “He’s a dear old friend of mine, down on his luck. I am merely here to take him home. No funny business.”

The whore looked unimpressed, although she did reach out and take the bundle of cash out of his hand, her own fingers trembling, either from hunger, or more likely from withdrawal. He wondered how long until she she’d blow it all on her next fix. Humans. He shuddered.

“See that bus over there?” She pointed roughly two hundred feet down the stretch. “You’ll find the guy you’re looking for inside. Though you might have to take a number.” She gave him a lecherous smile, exposing the fact that much like the rest of the populace of this shithole she was also missing a number of teeth.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he quipped, turning away and heading towards the bus.

He felt an unpleasant sensation in his stomach that he couldn’t quite place. What was that the whore had said? Take a number? It was then possible that he’d find Castiel _in flagrante_ with some john. Well, Crowley would just have to kill his customer, he supposed. Wrong place, wrong hole, and all that. It would be more time efficient than having to wait, after all. Can’t risk the Winchesters summoning his evil and definitely _not cured_ ass back to the dungeon empty handed. And that was about all the explanation he needed for his line of thinking.

He wasn’t going to think about it. People falter. Angels fall. Sometimes they fall so hard they land on someone’s cock. And get paid for it. Castiel’s vessel was… Well, again, this was neither here nor there. Crowley shook off the thoughts of Castiel’s vessel and the litany of dirty deeds that one might do with it if given half the chance.

The whore had lied, it turned out. Or at least there wasn’t any sound of fornicating coming out of the abandoned vehicle when Crowley carefully mounted the steps. He noticed, even from the outside, the bus had been warded against angels. But not demons. Interesting. How priorities shift when you bring down the literal fall of your own kind. Suddenly, he stumbled, half way into the cabin. Salt. Damn.

“Cas,” he groaned, a wave of exasperation wafting over him.

He heard some kind of shuffling in the back of the bus.

“Cas?” he tried again, trying to make his voice steady. “C’mon, Cas! Don’t make me huff and puff and just blow all this salt away.” Silence. “The Winchesters sent me to find you,” he tried. “You remember the Winchesters, don’t you, Cas? Stupid? Stupidly tall? Stupidly attached to you? Ring any bells?”

“They’re not stupid,” he finally heard, that unmistakable voice, like stones grinding against one another with a hint of butterscotch.

“So you do remember them.”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

He still couldn’t see the other man, but he could make out his feet descending from the makeshift bunk of the back seat of the bus.

“I told you. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Hell is not my home.”

“Always were rather slow on the uptake, weren’t you, Castiel?” Crowley took a step back, contemplating the line of salt. He wondered if he really had enough mojo to just blow it all away as he threatened. Either way, the fallen angel didn’t know that he couldn’t, and hopefully wouldn’t have to call his bluff. 

“I don’t have a home,” the former angel added. “This is my home now.”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic, Cas! This is ridiculous, even for you.”

Crowley could finally make out the other man’s form, straightening up to its full near six feet of height, and moving closer towards him with tentative steps, as if he still hadn’t quite learned to balance himself without his wings.

“Why are you here?” Castiel repeated.

“I told you. The boys sent me.” And then he added, slyly, “Dean is worried sick about you.”

“Dean.” The name sounded wrong on the angel’s tongue, somehow. That wasn’t the way Crowley had been accustomed to hearing Castiel pronounce that appellation. Usually there was much more force behind it. Much more everything. “Dean doesn’t want to see me.”

“Stupid angel. Your self-esteem is as low as if you were a Winchester yourself.” He wondered, for a moment, whether what the whore had said had been right after all. Or if he had interpreted it all wrong.

“I… I couldn’t reach Dean. They came for me. I fled.”

“Yes, and it’s a touching autobiography. Castiel’s Story of Woe,” he declared dramatically, adding, “Subtitle: I couldn’t reach Dean.” Crowley puffed out his chest. “Well, guess what? _I don’t care_. They sent me to get you and bring you back to the mothership, and that’s precisely what I intend to do. Now. Will you come with me or do I have to go back to Dean and tell him what a very bad, dirty angel you’ve been?”

He hadn’t meant it to come out quite like that, especially since he actually hadn’t _meant_ it like that. And since when did he even give two shits if he hurt someone’s feelings? But the look on Castiel’s face was… well, stunned. Shattered. Uncannily similar, in fact, to the look Cas had given him the last time they met - when Crowley had stuck his entire fist into his vessel’s innards and pulled out the Angel Tablet from the viscera.

“You _have_ been a dirty angel, haven’t you?” There was a touch of awe in Crowley’s voice, but also something that was disturbingly close to pity.

“I’m not an angel anymore,” was all Castiel said and cleared the salt line with his foot, looking straight into Crowley’s eyes with those bottomless pools of lapis. He looked resigned. He looked ready. Crowley had realized that he was expecting him to kill him. To end it. This pain, this wretchedness that he had sensed all through this camp of human denigration, it had somehow seeped into Castiel as well.

He reached out, slowly, so as not to startle Cas too much, and placed his hand on his upper arm. A jolt of shame and hunger pierced through Crowley. He definitely did not appreciate this new “gift” he had seemed to develop after his run-in with Moose-blood.

“Come on,” he said softly. “I can’t take you back to the Winchesters looking like this.”

He checked his pocket watch. It looked like he still had at least eight hours before he was due back. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He disappeared, taking Castiel with him.

***

He had chosen the Holiday Inn probably for the same reason that Cas had the genius idea to hide in the Biggerson’s. They were all the same, nondescript, non-offensive properties, with a decent mattress and a useable shower, and his new traveling companion needed the latter in a strong way.

“Why did you bring me here?” 

The look of distrust in Castiel’s face would have hurt, had Crowley actually allowed that he had any feelings. But that was nonsense. He knew why he had agreed to this, and it had everything to do with self-preservation, and zero to do with the fact that he may have had a different agenda. The fallen angel looked around the room, pausing for a while as he eyes took in the queen size bed in the middle. He had probably realized the value of a good night of sleep by then, Crowley figured. Although, by the looks of the dark circles around the other man’s eyes, it was doubtful that he had managed to get more than four hours of shut-eye in a row in the last few weeks.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, to bring himself back from his mind’s meandering more than anything else.

“What are you going to do to me?” Crowley winced at the defeated note in Castiel’s voice. 

“I just thought,” Crowley paused, struggling with the warring desires to kick the angel while was down and to comfort him. He didn’t appreciate this bifurcation in the road of his thought processes. “You’d want to get cleaned up a bit before I take you back to the Winchesters.”

“Look, whatever you’re going to do, just get it over with. I’m exhausted. I’m hungry. I have sores on my feet that haven’t stopped bleeding in days. I won’t fight you, Crowley. I’m done.”

Crowley shrugged and moved over to the mini-bar. This one-on-one time wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He might as well take the broken angel back to Dean, see what that chest-beating Neanderthal could do with the guy. He wasn’t very good at this, whatever this was. Angel therapy? Crowley rummaged in the small refrigerator, finally pulling out two tiny bottles of Jack Daniels, deciding this would do. He poured each of them a glass and handed Castiel his drink without uttering another word.

“Why are you doing this?” The poor sod’s hand shook, but eventually he reached out and took the glass out of Crowley’s fingers.

“A toast,” Crowley proposed.

“To what?”

“To new beginnings.”

Cas took a long swig from the glass and shuddered head to toe. It was obvious he would no longer be able to drink a liquor store and remain standing (Crowley enjoyed reading about that in the Carver Edlund novels, the Gospel of Chuck).

“You have every right to want me dead,” the former angel said, lowering himself so that he was semi-crouched on the very edge of the bed. 

“Eh, upon further reflection, I find that you were quite magnanimous in your megalomania not to have killed me. Sheer sentimentality, I suppose?” Crowley walked towards the window. It was dark outside, the only sound being an occasional car speeding by on the highway in the middle of the night. Holiday Inns were often highway-proximate. “I have given this careful consideration and I’ve decided that we’re even. And I forgive you.”

“You _forgive_ me?”

“They tell me that I am a changed man.” Crowley grimaced and took another sip of his drink. It was no thirty year old Craig, to be sure, but it was doing the trick. He felt buffered. “I can fix those for you, by the way,” he pointed towards Castiel’s feet. 

“In exchange for what?”

“Oh, Cassy, is this really what you have come to? Can’t a guy do a little selfless healing for an old friend and business partner? It doesn’t _have_ to be quid pro quo, or whatever vile sex acts you’ve probably gotten used to dispensing.”

“I have learned that there are limits to human kindness,” Castiel said, his eyes fixed on the neutrally gray carpet.

“Luckily for you, I’m not human.” Crowley finished his drink and eyed the mini-bar again. Perhaps he’d have to resort to the baby bottles of Absolut next. “Though I know more about being human than you do, old pal. I lived a whole lifetime as one.” He paused, eyes looking over Castiel’s downtrodden form. Why was it so unbearable to see him like this? Crowley was disgusted, but mostly with himself for giving a damn. “I can help,” he added, taking a step forward. “It doesn’t have to hurt, you know. Being human. Losing yourself.”

Castiel shifted a little higher on the bed and Crowley sat down next to him, switching out his empty glass for another one, this time filled with clear liquid. 

“That’ll taste like ass to you, but it’ll make you warm.”

“I have not yet tasted ass,” Cas mumbled and downed the vodka in a single shot, like some kind of Kossak. 

“First time for everything,” Crowley found himself mumbling while staring at the fallen angel’s lips. He bit his tongue and narrowed his eyes. A wave of something akin to nausea welled up in the pit of his belly. Damnation, he has not felt like this since… Well, frankly, he couldn’t really remember anymore.

“Why do people drink this?” Cas’ confused face focused on Crowley and handed back the empty glass to him with no small measure of disgust.

“To get drunk,” the demon explained and shifted a little closer. “You smell, you know. And I don’t mean like roses. I brought you here so you could shed these rags, take a nice shower, while I go steal you something pretty to wear before I take you back home to Deanie-boy.”

“No, really, why are you being so nice to me?”

“I just told you that you reek, or have you gone deaf too? How is that being nice?”

“Fine,” Cas got up off the bed and began to methodically shed all his innumerable layers of clothing. The guy must have been wearing at least five layers and then Crowley lost count because he started to get a glimpse of all that epidermis and, before he could really control himself, he was leaping up off the bed, onto his feet, and enfolding the former angel into an embrace.

The other man froze in place, his hand still holding his shirt in mid-air, before letting it drop to the floor.

“I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. Let me help you.” Crowley pulled back a bit, eyeing Castiel with an expert look, taking in all his injuries. All things considered, it could’ve been worse, Crowley decided. At least Hot Wings here seemed mostly intact, even if he did have the remnants of a bruise on his cheekbones, some fresher looking ones blooming across his ribs, and that look in his eyes like at any given moment he might be expected to drop to his knees and start sucking.

Cas exhaled. Crowley ran his fingers through the greasy hair on his otherwise still handsome head. 

“We were great together once, you know. I’ve dealt with angels before. Your friend Naomi, for example. Magnificent bitch, that one.”

“She’s dead,” Cas muttered and stared at the carpet again.

“Shame.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably and placed both his palms on the gentle slopes of Castiel’s chest. “I was saying… you and I? We were good. We made a good team.” Crowley sighed. This was ridiculous. “I wouldn’t have betrayed you then. And, look, I won’t hurt you now. That’s what I’m saying. So… just let me help you.”

“You can’t heal me, Crowley,” Cas replied, his voice low and tinged with that same intangible heartbreak. “Not in any way that will make me whole again.” Before Crowley could protest, he added, “But I will take that shower now.”

Well, he wasn’t going to go with him, Crowley figured. But as he saw Castiel’s disrobed form slowly start the trod towards the bathroom he placed his hand softly on his shoulder, healing his feet anyways, to make the way easier. He made the bruises go away too, because he wasn’t the kind to leave a job half done.

***

The suit Crowley procured was Jean Paul Gautier. It was maybe a tad over the top, but he wasn’t going to let Cas back into the garbage he had been wearing and it seemed pointless to be thrifty when you didn’t actually have to pay for it. And it was completely worth it, Crowley smirked triumphantly, as he watched the new human preen in the hotel room mirror. He was and always would be a miracle worker.

“Now that is a sight for sore eyes,” he nodded approvingly, smoothing his hands down the shoulders and sleeves, making sure it sat perfectly in the waist too while he was at it. The Winchesters could never appreciate style like this. Hell came in many forms, but having to live without one’s tailor, now _that_ was undignified.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Cas’ lashes cast a long shadow over his cheekbones.

“Oh, but I did this for me. I’m the one who has to look at you.” He was proud of himself, truth be told. Crowley was nothing if not a consummate professional, and he admired his work again with an approving eye. “If you’re not going to sleep here, we might as well be getting back. I’m sure Squirrel is getting squirmy.”

“You don’t have to take me back. He doesn’t really want to see me, he…” Cas’ protests were cut off by Crowley’s hand over his mouth.

“Sorry, angel. I don’t welch on my deals.”

“I did things. Horrible things.”

“When’s that ever stopped them from giving you another chance?” Comforting angels was definitely one of the lowest things he’s been reduced to, Crowley decided. “Besides, he lo… He llloo…. Ugh…” Disgusting. Despicable. “Hrmph! Dammit, Cas. He _loves_ you. Blast!” He turned away from the mile long blue-eyed stare. “Ahem, he… It may not be, you know, the love that dare not speak its name, but it’s whatever the Winchester equivalent of that is, so…”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m _never_ wrong, my dear boy. I’m only ever occasionally _fooled_.” He cleared his throat again. It did hurt, back then. That’s what it was, in retrospect, the pain of betrayal. It made it personal. It felt good to stick your hand inside the bastard who had hurt you and watch him bleed as you yanked away the thing he held most dear. Crowley saw it clearly now - Castiel had been his weakness. He thought there was kinship there. Angels and Demons, one fall from grace separates them all, and it’s a very short way to fall, relatively speaking. “Let’s go,” he commanded, mustering his resolve and grasping Cas’ arm again to head towards the Men of Letters Bunker.

***

“They’re not here,” Cas came out of the last one of the boy’s bedrooms, after checking the entirety of the subterranean layer.

“Did you check the dungeon? They might be playing love games in there.” Crowley leered.

“I looked everywhere. They’re gone. We should leave.”

“Leave? After I’ve gone to all this trouble to pretty you up again and hand deliver you?”

“I told you, they don’t care about me. They’re not even here. They’ve probably got better things to do. I’m sure the world is ending _somewhere_.”

Crowley couldn’t suppress a laugh at that.

“Oh, Cas.”

“Oh, great!” The voice behind them was accompanied by the sound of shotgun being pumped. “Keep down the fort, Kevin. We’ll be right back, Kevin. Those liars have been gone for over six hours and now I’m stuck here with the guy who tortured and killed my mom, and _this_ asshole.”

“Put the gun down, young Tran,” Crowley had just about had it with this entire day. “I’m merely delivering your landlord’s boyfriend to his care, and I’ll be gone quicker than you can say ‘closet case.’ Incidentally, where did they say they were going?”

The gun, much to Crowley’s chagrin, was still pointed directly at his chest.

“They’re not here to stop me. So help me, I will exorcise your ass and send you back to Hell if this doesn’t kill you first,” the kid’s arms shook, but his eyes were as cold as steel. This wasn’t ideal. Crowley briefly contemplated killing the Prophet and taking his chances on the next one (not that the coterie of future Prophets to choose from was very impressive, last time he checked). Unexpectedly, Cas had decided to move between him and the double barrel pointed at his chest. 

“You can’t hurt him,” by the sound of Cas’ voice, Crowley could tell he meant business. It gave him funny feelings to be on the receiving end of such fierce protectiveness. 

“I’ll do whatever I want. You’re not the boss of me! You’re not the boss of any…. oh _fuck_!” The last expletive was emitted in response to Castiel effortlessly disarming the poor bugger. Crowley tried not to laugh in his face, but _damn_ that felt nice. 

“Go to your room, Kevin,” Crowley purred, as Cas walked steadily into the kitchen, placed the gun on the counter, and started going through the fridge. “Let me know if they’ve got anything worth eating in there,” Crowley called out.

“Why?” Cas looked over his shoulder, something in his hands that looked suspiciously like moldy cheese. “You don’t need food.”

“Maybe not, but I do enjoy stealing from the Winchesters.”

Something was thrown towards him, which he caught with practiced alacrity.

“Beer? What do you think I am, Cas? Some kind of philistine?”

“There are also raw eggs.”

“I hope you realize you have to cook those first before eating them,” Crowley mumbled, making the bottle cap disappear and reappear several times on the bottleneck. Finally, he decided that this was better than not drinking, and made the cap disappear for good.

“Of course I realize that. I was there at the creation of salmonella.”

“That must’ve been quite the birthday party,” Crowley muttered, taking a sip of the beer. Cas was staring at a skillet as if he was hoping Enochian writing would appear on the bottom of the pan with precise usage instructions. “First, you should turn on the stove,” Crowley offered, and proceeded to light the stove pyrokinetically from where he was sitting. “Now, how do you want them? Scrambled? Sunny side up? That sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Sunny side up. Almost makes you forget that you’re actually eating unfertilized chicken ova.”

“You know how to cook?” Cas quirked an eyebrow upwards.

“Of course. You’re as pretty as you are dumb. I told you - I was human once. I know how to do all the human things.”

“Will you…” By Hades, the angel looked adorable when he was all flustered like that. “Teach me?” There were many things that Crowley would have happily taught him, but none of those things involved cooking at that precise moment. Perhaps the suit he had selected was a little too well fitted. Also, what kind of a _moron_ tries to make an omelet while wearing Gautier?

“You are about to make a profound mess, aren’t you?” Crowley shifted off the barstool and approached the other man.

“That seems to be my special gift,” Cas replied with a sheepish grin, which Crowley refused to classify as precious.

“Give that over,” he snapped, trying to concentrate on the task at hand instead of the hands at task. What? Dammit. His hands. Why hadn’t he noticed before how shapely they were, how long and nimble those fingers? What was happening to him? Crowley broke the eggs into the pan angrily. “Sunny side up, it is. I’m too lazy to think about other ingredients right now. They probably don’t even _own_ milk.” He was blabbering and he knew it, but that was fine, so long as it didn’t involve looking at the angel’s hands. Or neck. _Stupid_ neck. Crowley’s own current vessel didn’t have much in the way of one. Still, it had a certain charm, and he was fond of it. “Anyways, I hope you like it runny, salmonella be damned.” He scooped his creation onto a plate and placed it into Castiel’s hands. “ _There_. The Crowley Special.”

Cas looked down at the plate in his hand. The three egg yolks were staring at him like some kind of a three-eyed being, glistening appetizingly in a sea of white.

“You might want some bread to go with that,” Crowley suggested, helpfully and then lit up with the urge to knock the plate out of the angel’s hand just to see the look on his face as egg spilled all over the kitchen floor. There, that was evil. He beamed with pride, but only for a moment. He couldn’t go through with it. _Blast._

Cas ate as if for the first time, and Crowley had to allow this was probably the first meal the poor sod had had in who knew how long. He briefly contemplated getting the guy a bib, but that would ruin the composition with the suit and tie, and if he got egg all over himself, well, that could be dealt with decisively later. He did manage to get most of it into his mouth though, Crowley was pleased to observe. But some of the egg yolk had managed to escape and was amidst a long, slow dribble down into the dimple of Castiel’s chin when Crowley caught it with his thumb to stop it from descending any further.

“You’re one messy baby,” he whispered, thumb hovering in midair, the drop of yolk perching on top of it like an amber jewel.

Then something completely bizarre happened. Crowley had to rewind the moment in his mind just to make sure he hadn’t utterly hallucinated it. But, no. Castiel really did lean forward and sucked the egg remnants off the pad of his thumb. With his mouth. With the mouth that had those lips. Crowley had to lift his proverbial jaw off the proverbial floor.  


“You… whu… C… Cas…” he stuttered. 

“It was delicious,” Cas replied, licking his lips, eyes fixed on Crowley as if he had hung the moon and then made Moon Omelet.

“Mmm,” Crowley replied and immediately kicked himself for his lack of eloquence. Hundreds of years on Earth and in Hell, and _that_ was the best response he could concoct?

“Thank you,” Cas added and reached across to take the bottle of mostly undrunk beer out of Crowley’s hand.

“Thank you… Uh… I mean, you’re welcome.” This was completely unjustifiable! 

“Would you like to have sex now?”

“Mmmmm yes… Www… _what_?”

“Sex. Intercourse. Bumping uglies, I believe I heard someone call it once.”

“Cas…” Crowley watched the angel mouth at the beer bottle again. 

“You said it doesn’t have to hurt. You said you could teach me how to be human. The _right_ way.” His eyes were getting big again, and, Crowley thought, a little too close to being wet.

“I..,” he began to mutter, torn between the base impulses of his dick (no longer in the double digits, alas, but still a strong contender), and that other ungodly thing that Moose-blood had apparently instilled in him. _Morality?_ No, no, that simply will not do. “Is this what you _want_?” he asked, finally, exhaling and reaching for his bottle back.

“It seems like something we should do,” Cas shrugged.

“ _Should_? No, angel, you’ve got it wrong. This isn’t a business transaction.”

“Isn’t it?”

Crowley got up off the barstool again and started to pace the confines of the kitchen. What on Earth was the matter with him? Here was Neck - basically being presented for him to bite, claim, and go Alpha-dog on in any number of ways, and he was having some kind of a conniption in the Winchesters' kitchen instead of just grabbing the delectable ass and fucking it right here (preferably on Dean’s bed). If any of his horde would see him now, what would happen? How is a man to hold on to the Throne of Hell if he can’t even take ass when ass is being presented to him on the proverbial silver platter?

“But it _isn’t_!” he shouted, equally at Cas as at himself. “It’s not… This… I don’t want _that_.”

“Oh.” Cas looked away again. He looked disappointed, dejected even. Crowley didn’t understand - any of it. “Of course not. Why would you want me.”

“No, you ass to the thousandth power! I didn’t say I didn’t want _you_ , I _said_... Ugh. Forget it. I don’t need your misplaced charity. You don’t have to pay me in sexual favors for making sunny side up. Do you even _know_ how simple it is to make?” He had stopped pacing, but only because suddenly Castiel was standing right in front of him, cutting off his path. Crowley flailed his arms in the air helplessly, bereft of words. For the first time in his existence, he didn’t know what to say, _and_ he didn’t want to talk anymore.

“I like you, Crowley. It seems… ill advised. But…”

“I like you too, Cas.” He wanted to reach out and ruffle his stupidly thick hair again, to see how it might feel running his fingers through it now that it was clean. He wanted…

Cas leaned in. And then Crowley gave up on all common sense and pressed his lips to the former angel’s mouth, feeling the chapped skin of his pink lips under his own. He did not use tongue. There’s nothing sensual about tongue you’re not attracted to, and at that moment he still wasn’t sure that this wasn’t some misguided attempt to pay him back for rescuing the angel from the life of iniquity he had been leading, and making him some god damn eggs. Then he felt the angel’s fingers, those long, beautiful fingers he had found so mesmerizing earlier, trail up the nape of his neck and card through his hair, pulling him closer.

“Sweetheart,” Crowley exhaled, coming up for unneeded air, “You don’t need any lessons. You’re already a natural at this.”

“Thinking about it and doing it are different things,” Cas responded in a low voice.

“You haven’t thought about doing this with me,” Crowley teased, leaning in again and this time trailing his tongue along the hollow of Castiel’s neck, just as he had imagined earlier.

“Have you?”

“Mmmm…. maybe.”

To say that Castiel tasted divine would be cliche, tacky, and a number of other things that Crowley didn’t even want to contemplate. But the guy tasted _damn good_ nevertheless. He pulled the fallen angel closer, relishing in the feel of his skin under his lips and tongue, enjoying the little gasps and moans that escaped his throat when Crowley happened upon a particularly sensitive spot.

It seemed Cas was still struggling with the concept of this whole actual disrobing thing, fingers clumsily poking at the buttons of Crowley’s shirt. He had already shrugged off his blazer, just to be of service, like a perfect gentleman. They both laughed at the stubborn buttons and paused, looked at each other with a sense of anticipation, and if Crowley was forced to admit it, yes, wonder.

“Do you mind if I just rip this off?” Cas asked.

“Do I _mind_?” Crowley was about to explicate to the gorgeous imbecile that tailors don’t grow on trees and that he wasn’t some angel who could just poof a new shirt onto himself when this one got ruined. Had Cas forgotten the care he had taken in the past to wear an apron when dissecting Lilith? Instead he said, “Just bloody get it off me, would you?”

Cas smiled and ended up somehow managing to pull the damn shirt over Crowley’s head, only dislodging one or two buttons in the process, but otherwise leaving it mostly intact. Crowley had been a lot more careful of the Gautier, leaving it mostly in place. Everyone has their kinks, and Crowley was no exception. As much as he longed to run his hands over the taught planes of his old partner’s body, he looked good enough to eat in that suit, and Crowley had been nursing quite the appetite.

The kitchen counter looked like a good candidate for the activity Crowley had in mind, his imagination already on fire with thoughts of the angel bent over it. He could make this good for him, erase the thoughts of anything that’s passed since he’d fallen, maybe not literally, but enough where he would feel whole again. Yes, fill him up. Just don’t lose yourself in the process, Crowley. Oh, who was he kidding. He was long gone even before they got to the Holiday Inn.

Cas purred against him like a kitten, cock throbbing inside his perfectly fitted pants, as Crowley palmed at it, feeling it grow against his caress. His other hand had snaked underneath the angel’s shirt, rubbing into the tired flesh of his back, running his fingers along the well defined muscle of his abdomen. Why hadn’t they done this sooner, he wondered.

They kissed again, more violently that time, Crowley maneuvering the other man flush against the kitchen counter, keeping his mind on the goal. He unbuttoned Cas’s fly and drew him out, lavishing loving strokes over his tumescent flesh, tearing another delightful moan of desire from the angel.

“You’re so beautiful,” he praised, kissing along his freshly shaven jaw. “Look at you,” he muttered, looking appreciatively at the cock in his hand.

“Please,” Cas begged, looking more disheveled and debauched with each stroke.

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll take care of you,” Crowley promised, making a mental note of the olive oil on the counter. Not like he was going to go rummage in Dean’s duffle bag for more suitable supplies, much though that thought tickled his fancy. Cas’ pants dropped to his ankles, exposing long, shapely legs. “Hnggg..” was all Crowley was capable of uttering, as he grabbed the other man by the shoulders and spun him around, pressing up all along his back, feeling his body react to the warmth against it with all too human need. 

The rest was simple enough. It was like riding a bicycle, a thing neither Cas nor Crowley ever learned how to do. But apparently it was easy.

***

They were lying on the floor, in the middle of the room. Crowley had forgotten when they had moved there. It may have been after the kitchen. Or after the time they did it on the war room table. Or maybe after the time they _talked_ about doing it in the dungeon, but never quite made it that far because neither one really knew how to get there, secret book cases and all that. Cas was completely naked by then, his Gautier left abandoned on one of the barstools, lovingly folded because Crowley had gone to some trouble to procure that bloody thing. Crowley was wearing a robe and secretly hoping it was Dean’s. His hand was drawing lazy circles along Cas’ exposed back. It felt comfortable without the annoying pangs of his demonic conscience, which had long ago given up on urging him to do anything other than put his mouth exactly where it wanted to go: all over the angel’s body.

He would have fallen asleep, if he needed such a thing, but instead he lay there, feeling the rhythmic rising and falling of Cas’ chest against him. The baby human was out like a light, paying no heed to either his state of utter undress or his location.

That’s when Crowley heard the heavy door slam and latch and two pairs of boots coming down the stairs. He grinned and looked over at Cas. Out like a light. This should be good. He wondered about covering up his private bits, and instead moved Cas’ leg strategically higher to cover the area. That felt nice too.

“What the hell?!”

The bunker had developed a Winchester echo as both of the boys intoned the invocation in unison.

“Hello, boys,” he smirked off the floor.

“Crowley?”

“Cas?”

“What the actual fuck?” Dean looked like he was about to pop an artery.

“Oh thank God you’re back!” Kevin had stumbled out of his room, looking three sheets to the wind, and Crowley couldn’t blame him. They _had_ made a bit of a ruckus. 

“Is that my fucking robe?” Dean really did seem about to have a stroke.

“You did want me to find Cas for you? Well… Here he is. All safe and sound.” Crowley nodded towards his sleeping companion.

“What… why… _what_?”

“You have _no_ idea,” Kevin added with emphasis, pointing to the two prone men on the floor. “Please don’t ever leave me here again.”

At the sound of the small uproar, Cas began to stir and yawned into Crowley’s chest.

“There, there, darling. It’s alright,” Crowley patted the angel on the back, still feeling more pleased with himself than he felt in ages. “Daddies are home.”

“Bleach! Bleach for my eyes!” Sam spat out, looking about as traumatized as Kevin must have felt.

“ _Not_ cool, bro!” Dean pointed at both the demon and angel, making Crowley question which one of them he was referring to as “bro.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas muttered, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Sam.”

“I…. We…. You… We’re gonna talk about this later!” Dean snapped and headed immediately for his room, slamming the door, and abandoning his brother.

“He’s happy to see you, sweetie,” Crowley whispered to Cas, who looked confused more than he did embarrassed.

“Does this mean we can’t kill him?” Kevin asked Sam, who still looked as if he was fruitlessly trying to think of where in the bunker the Men of Letters had stored the bleach.

Finally, Sam seemed to gather his bearings and straightened up to his full Gigantor height. 

“Um… welcome back, Cas,” he mumbled. “Crowley, you’re a dick,” he added and also headed towards his own room.

“Seriously?” Kevin stood there, mouth agape like a fish struggling for oxygen. “Really? That’s it? We’re all just going to sleep?”

The sound of something getting thrown came from Dean’s bedroom. 

“Are there anymore spare rooms around here?” Cas asked, blinking up at the Prophet, seemingly unfazed.

“You have _got_ to be frickin’ kidding me,” Kevin threw up his arms. “Yes! Go take _that_ one!” He pointed angrily to another door which neither Crowley nor Cas had noticed earlier. “And maybe put some clothes on in the morning!” The child stomped off in a tizzy. Crowley almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Crowley grinned again. He had no idea where this was going, but he knew he would have a world of fun getting there.


End file.
